


Memento Vivere, Memento Mori

by lysmune



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: Adventure, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Eventual Romance, F/M, Heartbreak, Heavy Angst, Novelization, Oblivion Main Quest, Romance, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-02-10 03:41:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12903204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lysmune/pseuds/lysmune
Summary: "Remember to live, remember that you must die."When Amelie Morgenteu left High Rock, she left knowing full well the consequences that carried with it. But to rot in a prison cell is one thing; having the fate of Tamriel on her fingertips is another.





	1. The Hand of Fate

      There is something oddly reassuring about being contained inside a cell. Underneath the Imperial City’s streets, she can hear the faint shuffling of feet, accompanied by the soft rhythmic rain that comes from the runny sewers, putrid stench rising into the air like puffs of smoke amidst the shuddering light of Sun’s Dawn that filters through the grates above her. Aside from the smell, it’s comforting, and even then, she considers herself to be quite fortunate it isn’t worse.

      Her hand slips into the pocket of her trousers, finger skimming over the cool body of a single lock pick, quick at first before she draws it out longer, trying to discern if it’s really there. She doesn’t know if the guards had been careless or if they were really trying to let her free, given her history with lock picks. There’s only one barred gate keeping her from feeling Cyrodiil’s fresh air again, but Amelie merely chuckles before she drops the pick back into her pocket safely, patting it as though bidding a farewell.

      It should be a tempting offer, and it still is, but Amelie can’t be bothered, not when she’s come to terms with the consequences of her actions; she always had. _Besides_ , she thinks, _my cell has no roof. I should be able to satiate my daily dose of nostalgia quite fine._

      Though she imagines it might have been a frightful prospect once, death brings her no harm, now.

       Amelie leans back against the slick, moss-covered walls, moisture cooling her skin and she hums in content, closing her eyes to listen to the cadence of the precipitation that falls from the ceilings. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven and she drums her fingers against her thigh to its beat, nodding her head slightly. She feels right at -

      “Pale skin, snotty expression. You’re a Breton!”

      -home. _I spoke too fast, it seems._

      She lets her vision return as she pushes herself of the wall, grunting underneath her breath before she shuffles to the gate, grasping the bar to pull her closer. She presses her face to the door, squinting for a brief moment, then taking two steps back, raising a brow as she does.

      He’s grinning, but the delirium in his eyes, the creases on the edges of his lips, they’re a sure fire indication that he’s either well-earned his jail sentence, or he’s been hitting the skooma a few hours beforehand. Neither are good signs. Amelie turns her back on him, deciding it best that she stay well away from him, but he seems persistent, feet shuffling across the wet stones as the rattling of metal resounds through the hallway.

      She sucks in a breath deeply, surprised, back tensing before she relaxes after her third heartbeat, brows furrowing. _Don’t turn to him, don’t turn, don’t -_ and she turns just as his grin widens, as though it’s enough to crack his face in two (she swears she can see the crevices splitting his flesh where sunlight falls).

      “The masters of magicka, right?” he questions, the octaves of his giggle afterwards a shrill thrill, causing her to cast a sideways glance and an errant curse. She ignores him, yet he seems to find it amusing to continue despite the silence. “What a lie, what a lie. You -“ his voice dangerously close to breaking, bars rattling as he rams his body against the gate. She jolts, turning to face him, watching his eyes widen when he says, “you’re nothing but a stuck-up harlot with cheap parlour tricks.”

      The Dunmer’s chest quivers, legs shaking with excitement and mania. Amelie balls her hands into fists, trying to restrain the snarl that threatens to break, the growl that sits just below her throat escaping through gritted teeth. _At least I’m still alive; that’s an achievement most can’t say they have_ , she nearly retorts.

      “Go ahead, try your magicka in here. Let’s see you make those bars disappear,” he taunts, daring her, his words a smug edge. Narrowing her eyes, she strides to the gates, hands gripping the bars as she smirks, anger raging underneath and making all the hairs on her skin prick. If he so delights in trying her patience, he’d likely delight in seeing it run out, and oh, how it has left her.

      “You really want me to practice here, churl?” she asks, her voice dangerous and cutting, and, for a brief moment, he seems genuinely taken aback, the hold on the bars limp before he tightens his hold and scoffs. Oh. “Suit yourself, then,” she shrugs offhandedly, loosening her grip on the gate, letting her hand drop to her side as magicka condenses on her open palm. If she’s dying, she’d at least like to take one bastard down with her. The magic grows hotter, brighter, until it combusts and when it does, Amelie thrusts her hand through the spaces in between as a fireball erupts, smouldering the air into embers as it snaps and crackles. The man across her flinches with an unceremonious yelp, immediately backing up, water splashing underneath bare feet and there is nothing but delight that wells up inside her, her toes curling. _Yes_. “‘The masters of magicka.’ Shall we put that to test, ashborn scum?”

      At her words, the flames grow brighter, tongues flickering, sputtering for a moment before it roars as she wills her magicka to flow to the centre of her palm. She regrets, at that moment, that she hadn’t really taught herself how to form ice spikes, because that would be infinitely more useful against him than fire, given their race’s natural resistance, but she supposes that if she throws it to the bars, let it heat, he’d still get a nasty enough burn when he comes to contact.

      Amelie draws her arm back while she aims, some twisted sort of satisfaction gnawing the back of her neck, ready to let the ball loose until heavy footfalls bear down. She tenses, still for a moment before she grunts, pulling her hand to her side, snuffing the fire as it passes between bars. She almost wishes she’d just charred him there as he wastes no time going to the gate, balance wobbling, snickering. “No? What’s the matter? Not so powerful now, are you Breton? You’re not leaving this prison ’til they throw your body in the lake,” he half-screams. “Oh, that’s right. You’re going to die in here, Breton! You’re going to -“

_Oh, for the love of -_

      “Quiet, churl!” she snaps at him, teeth gnashing together, her voice vicious as she silences him halfway, stunning him. The steps above are hurried, quick claps of thunder that blanket hushed voices (or so she makes out), growing louder with each second. Too many for a patrol, too little for a squadron, so who are -

      “You hear that?” he cuts her train of thought with a delirious laugh, pointing his finger up, tilting his head to the side as though he were catching their conspiracies. She takes a step backwards he starts to convulse, unnerved. “Oh, oh, ohhh,” he crones, “they’re coming, they’re coming! Coming for you!”

      He howls, body wracked with convulsions as he brings his face against the bars, eyeing her with red irises, his giggles uncontrollable. _Divines, out of everyone, why -_ and Amelie takes another step back, breathing a little uneven as his composure crumbles, drowning whatever thoughts she has, or would’ve, an uncomfortable chill settling in her gut.  
  
      She can do nothing but wait, now.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back, hello. Rewriting MeViMeRi. Have fun reading, and thanks in advance if you do. Leave some feedback if you want. Would like to thank a good friend of mine for being very encouraging, you know who you are.
> 
> Elder Scrolls (c) Bethesda


	2. Dead End

      Amelie buckles, taking two steps back as the mace hits the leather shield, grunting, pain spiking through her arm, nearly tearing through her measly defence. She’s huffing, straining to keep a firm block but the faint creaking doesn’t escape her; the shield won’t last. The dents are a lot deeper and the leather has started to fray, and by the next hit, it will likely - surely - break.

      From underneath the rim, she can see the hooded man quickly recovering from the recoil, his grip on the weapon tightening just slightly. _Think fast, think fast, come on,_  she urges herself, worry sinking into her skin, adrenaline and fear making her heartbeat run as she watches him roar. _Fuck, fuck, I hope this works_  and she sheathes her short sword, strengthening her arm to block to incoming blow while she channels her magicka to her right hand, listening to the faint crackle of thunder.

      Just as she predicts, her shield splinters, causing her to shy her eyes away momentarily as he yelps. The strike is powerful, forceful, and Amelie has barely enough time to sidestep, looking back to him before she grabs the man’s face from under his hood. Electricity surges from her fingertips to singe his skin, conducting the ozone as he screams in pure agony, smoke blooming in the air and flesh flaking to ashes under her touch.

       Her hand trembles, bile rising to her throat as she watches with unflinching eyes, even when every inch of her tells her to look away, let go (but he has to die). The assassin’s last breath is a gargle, one that causes her to pull away immediately, trying to hold her breath because he is everywhere in this room, all charcoal and fire, and blood. _Divines_ , she shivers as she tries to rub away the feeling of burning flesh on her palm (it turns him into ash inside out, raw muscle moving, visceral under - _stop, stop, don’t think about it_ ), her chest heaving, quaking, guilt wriggling in the pit of her stomach as she sputters and chokes.

 _A family, a friend, a lover, maybe; a father, a brother. You took it all away when you don’t even have the right._ **I know, I know** _\- but do you?._ **I have to.**

      Yes, you have to.

       She closes her eyes to erase the memory, then, reprimanding herself for being so high strung on her emotions, because _Remember, Mel, duty comes first_  (she nods, earning her, her father’s pleasant smile). _Breathe_ , she tells herself, _this isn’t the time to wallow_ , and the air that fills her lungs is sweet, not the poison she had inhaled a few minutes back, vision clearer as she straightens her back. _Later._

       Amelie walks towards the Emperor, inspecting him with a careful focus, trying to make out any physical wounds she might be able to heal, though there seems to be none it sight. Internal damage is a possibility, but she supposes that if it were truly so serious, he’d be clinging against the wall for purchase (or, of course, she could be wrong) and if that’s the case, it’s well beyond her meagre skills.

       “Are-,” she starts, gathering her the Emperor’s attention, “are you alright, Sire?” He smiles, a soft one, giving her a slight tilt of the head while he thanks her for her concern, and she finds herself responding with a weak smile of her own. She finds it a little strange how he’s so calm, even when being hunted down, that blue stare unflinching and eerily gentle, but settles with the assumption that he’s accepted his fate.

       The Emperor turns away to the doorway, his gaze distant before he looks to her. “I’m afraid, however, that I can go no further,” he says and her blood chills, unsettled. She swallows thickly.

      “Sire, the exit is close, or so your Blades say,” she replies, though this assurance sounds more like one for her than for him, her eyes wandering the room, the clanking of metal echoing around them shrill, soft. “You’ll be in safe hands soon.”

      He chuckles, if slightly, then continues with, “Your concern is touching, but you need not fret, I knew this day would come to pass.” The way he talks about himself, his coming death, it’s as though he were implying it be nothing but a small matter. She looks back to the Emperor to find him frowning, a little perplexed before he says, “But you walk a different path. You alone must stand against the Prince of Destruction and his mortal servants.”

       (She’s ten when she comes across _On Oblivion_ , curiously skimming over the words and trying to remember the Princes while her father recites the names out loud.

      “Meh-runes Day-gon,” he says. Then, “Prince of Change, Revolution, Energy, Ambition and **Destruction**.”)

      Her breath hitches in her throat at the memory. _Divines, it can’t be - no, no, there are people just -_ , she reassures herself, though it’s in vain. Something tells her that this Prince is anything but human. She balls her clammy hands into fist as cold sweat beads on her brow. “With all due respect, Sire,” she starts, her voice trembling, “I think you’re mistaken.”

      Another laugh. “Why? Because you were a prisoner?” and embarrassment pricks her like a needle, making her cringe. The Emperor takes her hand in his, then, and she shifts. “My child, who you were beforehand does not matter,” he says and she catches the underlines of desperation in the calm. “What does is that you are the only one who can stem the blood tide. He must not have the Amulet of Kings,” and at this, he takes a step back, hand moving to the glimmering ruby necklace on his neck, unclasping it, the chain rattling gently against fabric. She takes a shuddering breath.

      “Take the Amulet. Give it to Jauffre. He alone knows where to find my last son. Find him, and close shut the Jaws of Oblivion.”

 _Oh, by the Divines, it’s him isn’t it._  A chill staggers her heartbeat and fear starts to cling to her like second skin, and she looks to the Emperor to see the grave expression he wears, awash with the ashes of an incoming storm, and she wonders just what it is he’s seen.

      They’re on the precipice of war, she can taste it on her tongue, in the way the wind shivers.

       _And she can’t even stop the Emperor from -_

      “Then is this,” she swallows thickly, “is this goodbye?”

      “This is where _my_  journey ends.” Guilt, shame, they burn her when she realises that he’s certain he won’t survive. _Is this how I repay the man who trusted me? Pardoned me?_  She’s failed him, and it pains her, but she tells herself that she can still help by accepting his request. “For you, though, the road is long and dangerous. Now, give me your hand.”

      So she does and the amulet is pressed into her palm, unnaturally cool, unnaturally heavy. His fingers curl around hers to secure the necklace, wrinkled hands handling hers with a father’s delicate touch, and she remembers the day she left High Rock as it were, a vivid dream that makes her heart ache.

      _I’m so sorry._

      “With all my heart,” she pauses, swallowing the lump in her throat, teeth biting her bottom lip, “farewell, Sire.” She bows her head in reverence and respect, mustering her sincerity into her words.

      He brings her hand up to her chest, above her heart, hold tightening gently, his smile content, comforted. “Stand true, my friend. May your heart be your guide and the gods grant you strength.”

      Amelie nods, closing her eyes briefly, straightening her back as his hand leaves hers. The ‘thank you’ and ‘I will’ coagulates on her tongue, but before she can say it, the wall behind him shifts, grating upon each other. She’s too late to push the Emperor back and she watches him fall, horror widening her eyes, his last words accompanied by a fleeting gasp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, the second chapter came out fast. Uh, a rewrite, yes. If there are mistakes, let me know, I proof read myself and can miss stuff.
> 
> Enjoy reading.
> 
> The Elder Scrolls (c) Bethesda


	3. Sustenance

      Her breathing comes in rags when she meets Cyrodiil’s sunlight in its entirety, heartbeat erratic as she pushes her back against the wooden door, rasping, sliding to the ground with her hands around herself. She’s shivering despite the warmth.

      It rages around her, floating, slinking into every crevice in her thoughts, wailing and screaming accusations ( _You killed me, you killed me, you - you murdered me!_  ). Divines - no, they can’t help her for this - and Amelie shuts her eyes, trying to quiet the voice, teeth gnashing the inner flesh of her cheek, drawing the iron across her tongue because _how does it taste? How can I - ?_

      Her vision is a stark red, charred by the burnt edges and soot, and a piercing, hateful stare that inclines her to keep her focus trained. A harsh, hissing _How dare you?_  flickers across, and she forces a stuttering _I’m sorry_ , as if it will compensate for his death, trying to hide the guilt behind the lines of her childhood ( _Duty comes first, Mel. Duty comes first_ ).

      She recites it, a soft, shaking thing that grows louder, filling the air with a voice that strains to straighten. Does she believe it? _Yes, yes, yes ~~I must~~ I do._ Yet everything she does clashes against the thoughts in her head; the mantra whittles slowly.

      _I had to, you know that; I had to -_  
**He did, too; the same reason you -**  
_No._  
**Yes.**

      It suffocates her, twists and curls around her, and she tightens, hand to her throat, swallowing the surfacing bile as she retches, coughs, burns the walls of her throat and she scrambles to all fours, spine arched inwards while she spits, vomiting the contents of her empty stomach.

      (Trying to hold her breath because he is everywhere in this room, all charcoal and fire, and blood).

      She smells him in the air, the way he pops and sizzles, and screams, lightning crackling, wriggling, taunting her with an applaud. The ozone conducts into a wasteland.

      Another bout of sickness and she gags, ridding herself of the poison that she knows won’t leave her. She winces with a sob, brows furrowed and heart hammering; _Why me?_

     She brings the hand on her throat up, cupping her eyes. _I’m not cut - I can’t_ \- and then she pulls away when something cold sinks into her, lids flickering open to see the crimson gem glittering, dangling from the chain wound around her wrist. 

_Stand true, my friend. May your heart be your guide and the gods grant you strength.  
_ _You’re a wonderful daughter, Mel. The best of the best. I’m proud of you._

      ( _Duty first, Mel. Take time, but duty first_ , her father would always remind her. He would kiss her forehead afterwards, all the time.)

      It calms her, evens her breathing into a steady staccato as she sniffles, wiping the tears from the rims of her eyes. Yes, duty first. She’s taken her time and, in turn, wasted this world’s lifespan, wasted the Emperor’s sacrifice and trust, and her father’s respect.

      She must.

      Amelie stands, then, hand against the door to find purchase, steadying her shaky feet. She tries not to crumple when she brings a hand to her hip, unbuckling the leather pouch that the surviving Blade had given her, knocking away potions gently while she fumbles to grasp the parchment.

      She grabs it before fishing it out, unrolling it to reveal a map with a depression and some faint ink trails on a singular spot: Weynon Priory. It lay just south of Chorrol and along the Black Road, and she smoothes the paper, rolling it back up, then, before she places it back into the satchel.

_Head high, back straight. You have a purpose you need to fulfil._

       A purpose she intends to finish till the end. The Emperor did not die just to see the empire fall to ruin and he did not forgive her just because he had been generous. They both have their parts to play in this scheme the Divines have set out for them, whatever it pertains to.

      She knows that, now, better than before; clearer than before.

      She’s still shaking, she’s still not quite ready, but when Amelie gazes across the stretch of land across the lake, she’s resolute, heart hardening into a steel after cooling. She’ll survive this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had no idea what to name the chapter. I wanted to use 'Out Into Cyrodiil' but that's hardly befitting to Amelie's state. Also, my wifi is shit. 
> 
> But, other than that, enjoy the chapter, the crying and screaming. Thank you for reading, leaving kudos and comments; they mean a lot to me. They keep me going, basically .-.
> 
> You can also check my [tumblr](https://lysmune.tumblr.com) for projects, short fics, rants and general trashiness (and sneak peaks).
> 
> The Elder Scrolls (c) Bethesda


	4. Reprieve

      She’s in Chorrol by the eve, shivering slightly from the cold winds, though she finds it far from unpleasant, hands gripping the knapsack on her back tighter while she takes in the town. Right across her is an impressive stone statue depicting a kneeling woman with a man laid across her lap, a sword at his side and a shield at its base, greenery springing around them on a raised pedestal and, if she peers beyond it, she can make out the curling branches of an oak where the street opens into a plaza, leaves shuddering in the wind. The lanes are filled with houses, shops, and to the left, she presumes it would lead to the the chapel, considering the large architecture hidden behind.

      _It’s a beautiful city, I’ll give it that_ , Amelie muses to herself. It’s a lot quieter, when compared to Cyrodiil’s heart, but it’s more comforting; it puts her at ease.

      She can see the sun setting, the last of the light fading, orange glows dimming and she frowns. It’ll be nightfall soon and she needs to find an inn she can stay in, unwind; Divines know she’s just itching to lay herself to rest. She’s apprehensive to ask the guards, given her past, but she supposes that there is no choice, so she sighs, going back to the gates to -

      “Oh!”

      A raspy, gritty voice alerts her and adrenaline spikes her blood, her hand instinctively shifting to clutch at the satchel on her hip as magicka flows to her open palm. Grunting, she turns back only to find herself staring at a pair of red eyes wide with surprise, the Argonian’s head jerked back, and Amelie flushes, dispelling the spell immediately, her pulse slowing into a steady thrum.

      “I apologise, I thought -“ Amelie starts, pausing to search for a more polite word for assassin, though none comes to her. She shies away, biting her bottom lip before she sighs, perplexed; she continues with a, “nevermind.”

      The Argonian woman merely laughs. “A long day?” she asks with a smile and the Breton chuckles, though it sounds closer to a scoff. _You have no idea,_ she wants to reply, but shrugs instead, offering a slight smile. The Argonian seems to nod in understanding. “I’m sorry for startling you, earlier. I’d just wanted to come and say hello, since I don’t believe we’ve met.”

      At that, Amelie raises a brow. After all the fighting, the near death encounters, someone comes in merely to greet her? It seems a little surreal, but she takes into account that not everyone’s seeing people drop dead and, besides, she supposes that there’s nothing wrong with indulging in small talk. The Argonian herself seems to be unarmed and has scarce fighting skills, and she does need directions.

      Half-smiling, then, she shakes her head. “We haven’t.”

      The Argonian gives a beaming grin, one that reaches her eyes and makes them sparkle, which amuses the Breton. “Then allow me to introduce myself,” she says exuberantly, “I’m Dar-Ma.”

      “Amelie,” she offers curtly, simply, but hopes that it’s devoid of any offence.

      “Welcome to Chorrol, Amelie!” Dar-Ma greets, that smile of hers never fading (if anything, it seems to grow). “My mother runs Northern Goods and Trade,” she points to the first shop to her right, “so drop by anytime. I’m sure she’ll be glad to to meet you.”

      “I-“ and she’s at a loss for words now, slightly taken aback by how hospitable Dar-Ma is. She can tell the Argonian is sincere, that she’s genuinely just … warm and it relieves the tension. _I_ suppose _I can trust her._  “Thank you.”

      “Oh, it’s really no problem,” she assures languidly, waving her hand. “If you need any help, you can always ask me.”

      She nods her head, about to say her farewells before _Damn it, that’s right, I don’t even know where the inn is_. There’s an odd sense of embarrassment and helplessness, yet she asks, anyway. It’s either her or the guards. “I’m sorry to impose, but, do you know where the inn is?”

 

* * *

 

 _There’s nothing like a good bath,_  Amelie hums as she slumps to the bed, cocking her head to the right, shoulder cracking and she sighs contentedly at the sound. She does it to the other one, letting the tension dissipate before she reaches for her knapsack, unbuckling it to uncover its contents.  
  
      Two apples, a loaf of bread, a few stalks of leeks and some bunched, red-petalled plants. A dagger, a rusted necklace (bronze, she suspects), a flawed topaz and ruby, a pouch of Septims (which is now a little too empty for her liking) and some bandages finish the set; she shrugs.

 _The gamble could’ve been worse_ , she thinks, recalling how she’d summon a zombie to lure the bandits away from their campsite. She’d sneaked behind them as they distracted themselves with her creature before she sprinted for her life, bounded for Chorrol.

      At least she -

      A pain flares up her left arm, cramping her nerves, causing her to hiss and wince. “What the fuck did I do now?” she roars underneath her breath with a grimace, eyes narrowing as she searches her memory for -

      (She buckles and takes two steps back as the mace hits the leather shield, grunting, pain spiking through her arm, nearly tearing through her measly defence.)

      Divines, she knew she should’ve never taken that shield. She curses, huffing while she nestles her arm by her side, rolling her eyes; she can’t heal exhaustion. Why did she even bother, exactly? She’d never even used one. Sure it got her through, but she might’ve done just as well by using a zombie as her meat shield.

      Why didn’t she think of that when she needed it? _Impulse, adrenaline, stupidity._

      Amelie sighs, reaching for the satchel on the bedside table, pulling it by the string before she pries it open, taking the amulet out. It glints under the candlelight with a soft crimson shine, glittering, weighing as heavily as the Emperor’s words.

_Find him, and close shut the Jaws of Oblivion._

      “How do you even FIND a Daedric Prince?” she groans, bringing her hand up to cover her eyes as she grounds her teeth together. She can barely keep herself afloat, let alone be expected to save the whole of Tamriel. Divines, she can’t even -

_Don’t go there._

      Useless. She’s always been so, utterly useless. What did the Emperor even see in her? She hears everyone talking about how they all have some sort of hidden gem inside, some sort of outstanding character and yet, here she is, still -

_One step at a time, Mel._

_(“Nothing’s working,” she huffed, sulking. Her father laughed._

_“One step at a time, Mel,” he reminded gently.)_

     One step at a time.

     She evens her breathing at this, lets the soothing voice of her father calm her as he always does, smiling.

      There’s no use worrying about it now and, besides, she remembers something about the Emperor saying that all she needs to do is deliver the amulet. With that thought, she twines the necklace around her wrist, thinking it be safer on her during her sleep than in a pouch, before she lays herself down.

      She pushes the copper hair away from her face ( _Oh, it’s getting long; mother would scold me._ ) and thinks of High Rock. Her father would be awake at this hour, perusing some obscure book about conjuration magic and Oblivion in his study with a mere kerosene lamp while her mother would chide her for not brushing her hair, for not trying to at least keep an hour long conversation before scurrying off to practice a summon or two. She’d always hug her, give her a kiss on the forehead, say a good night with a soft smile.

      She shuts her eyes, trying to keep the memories quiet, but it doesn’t work. Amelie lets out a few shuddering breaths, a few sobs; she misses home.

 

* * *

  
  
      Amelie takes in the store when Dar-Ma allows her inside. Rolls of silk and velvet propped against the wall, wooden crates under the staircase and the musty smell of tea and incense fill the air, sunlight from the second floor seeping through. She follows the woman up the steps while she greets Seed-Neus with a hearty, “I’m back, mother.”

      “Dar-Ma,” Seed-Neus’ voice is welcoming, warm, gentle in the morning, as she reaches the top just as Seed-Neus brings her daughter into an embrace. The sight makes her smile, melancholy and nostalgia seizing her heart in a tight squeeze; a morn in High Rock. When the pair parts, the older of the Argonians turns her eyes to her, her smile as kind as her daughter’s. _Ah, of course that’s where it’s from._ “You must be Amelie, yes? Dar-Ma told me there’s someone new in town,” and the Breton lets her lips curl at the sudden attention, giving a slight tilt as indication. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

      “And you, as well,” Amelie replies, pressing her back to the wall. It’s a little strange that she’d be here with Dar-Ma present, seeing as she came here to trade, almost makes her feel like an intruder, but running into her on the streets had been a complete coincidence. She’d come back another day, gladly, but she hadn’t much time, given her unfinished task, so she relents and asks; “I don’t mean to intrude but, may I sell some items?”

      At that, Seed-Neus lets a coarse laugh. “Of course,” she answers, going to the counter, motioning for the Breton to follow after. She steps towards the older Argonian just as Dar-Ma excuses herself with an ‘I’ll be out, Mother’ and a ‘Thank you’ meant for her, which causes Seed-Neus to cock her head to the side.

      “I helped her deliver some supplies,” Amelie clarifies nervously and it earns her another string of gratitudes, to which she waves off, because it’s a little too much and a little awkward, given that her initial idea to be altruistic wasn't, well, extremely generous. She slides the knapsack off her right shoulder first, when she reaches Seed-Neus, then, taking care as not to strain, her left (though she winces at the sharp flare) before she opens it and fishes out the flawed gems and the lone necklace.

      She sets these on the table, allowing the Argonian to peer at the objects, inspecting them as she holds it between her fingers. The flawed gems, one a topaz and the other a ruby, would net her around fifteen Septims, while the necklace would likely be six, she guesses. It’s been a while since she’s had to really calculate values.

      She rocks on her feet back and forth, unsure, shuffling, pushing her hair behind her ear while Seed-Neus opens the drawer under the counter, procuring a small pouch of Septims and she’d be lying if she said she didn’t miss the sound of coins clinking together. The Argonian counts the sum in hushes and if - if - her assumption is right, she’ll get around twenty one Septims, twenty three if her generosity pays off.

      “Here you go,” Seed-Neus says, fingers enclosed around the Septims and Amelie stretches her hand out, opening her palm before she drops the coins. She counts the amount and it’s a staggering thirty five, which makes her raise her brow in confusion, because even she knows this is too much compensation for simply helping out a supply delivery, one unintended in the first place. The Argonian seems to pick up on her bewilderment, because she gives a slight nod, a burgeoning grin. “You helped my daughter out -“

      “This is still -“ Amelie interjects only to be cut off again.

       “And you seem to be in dire need of new armour,” Seed-Neus points out, motioning to her side, which causes her to press her fingers there. She quirks a brow because there’s noth - oh, there it is, and she flushes at how foolish she is for missing the widening hole. At this, the Argonian chuckles, though it’s devoid of any malcontent. “I would’ve offered to sew it, but I think Rasheda’s better at her trade.” Rasheda? _Probably the smithy that’s right across The Grey Mare._  She doesn’t think any general goods store would be named _Fire and Steel_ , but, then again, she could be mistaken.

      With a sigh that pockets the bubbling excitement, she takes the Septims, drawing the pouch from her knapsack before letting them sink into its depths, and then returning it into safety. She didn’t exactly think she’d get this much and there is a sort of uncertainty in accepting quite a hefty sum, but she can barely put a stopper to the smile that threatens to curl her lips.

       She still retains some of her touch, so it looks like.

      With a slight tilt, she thanks Seed-Neus, bidding her farewell as she goes for the stairs. “Do try to take care of that shoulder,” the Argonian reminds and that stops Amelie in her tracks. She noticed? It isn’t as though it were hidden to begin with but to think that - and she smiles, reassuring the woman with a hum before she descends and exits the shop.

      When she’s outside, Amelie shuts her eyes briefly, hand over her mouth as she stifles the half-choked laugh, the memory of her mother mending her twisted ankle as clear as day. Always looking out for her, always there and _Divines, can I just -_ , but she knows she can’t so she breathes, reminds herself that she’ll be fine, that once this - whatever it is - is over, she’ll go back.

      She straightens her back before she makes for the smithy and then, she’ll head for the priory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back with an early update. Yay? I suppose. I wasn't sure where this was going, and this being this chapter, but I'm alright with how it turned out. It's coming off a little slow but that's how I imagine it to be with Amelie, anyways. It's a little more emotional than action-packed, and a little longer than I thought but it is what it is.
> 
> I want to thank you all for sticking it up until chapter four and I do hope you enjoy it so far. Thank you for being patient.
> 
> I also want to thank you all for reading, leaving kudos and comments because they're so encouraging, so lifting and I just ... I can't put into words how grateful I am for that. I'm really thankful and it keeps me going, and I appreciate each and every one of you. 
> 
> Check my [tumblr](https://www.lysmune.tumblr.com) for more updates and tomfoolery :D


	5. Delivering the Amulet

      Weynon Priory comes into sight just a slight few paces after Amelie finishes her breakfast, which had been composed of an apple and two stalks of leeks, and made for an unsavoury meal when compared to the venison stew ( _fricasse_ , her mother chides) back in High Rock, but beggars can’t be picky.

      The surroundings are silent, save for the few whinnies coming from the horses in the stables, the occasional rustle of leaves. She sighs, her right hand going to her left shoulder and she squeezes it gently, trying to ease the tension and fatigue from her previous battle two days ago, rolling her shoulder slightly; she winces at the sudden, sharp pain, then scowls.

      It isn’t getting better anytime soon, she knows as much.

      Her focus shifts from the lodge, to the chapel, to the house, wondering slightly at where this ‘Jauffre’ is. Maybe the chapel? But she doubts it, given how early she’s arrived and it seems unlikely that they would be present in the lodge, so she decides on the house. If Jauffre is absent, then at least there would likely be someone there to point her in his direction.

       She shifts her right hand to the knapsack’s straps, gripping it as she passes by the lone tree in the middle of the priory before finally reaching the front door. She’s unsure whether she should knock or just enter, given how public it is, but defers to her better judgement and raises her hand, rapping her knuckles against the wood.

      A ‘come in’ answers her and she enters the priory, shutting the door behind her before she turns to look at the rather empty area. There doesn’t seem to be many people and, if there are, few are in sight, the only indication that it houses inhabitants the beds on the second floor and a priest to her left, who chews on a piece from his loaf.

      When he catches her gaze, he stops momentarily before he takes a swallow and a quick sip of water, standing while he pats his hands against his robes. He greets her with a modest, “May I help you?”

      “I’m looking for Brother Jauffre,” she says, to which the priest raises a brow. She shrugs, straightening her back as she does. “I have some private matters I need to discuss.”

      At that, the priest visibly tenses and the smile is replaced by a slight frown, the warmth evaporating into a cold, steely stare. “What private matters?” he inquires, inspecting her warily.

      She narrows her eyes, adrenaline spiking her blood like a hushed thrum. “They’re private for a reason, brother,” she curtly replies as her hand instinctively moves to cup the leather pouch on her hip. She’s overpowered two to one currently, more if she considers the idea that there are others here who she hasn’t seen; there’s not much to gain for her even if she _tries_ to fight. “Listen, brother, even if I were here to cause harm, I can’t,” she gnashes from between her teeth and he stiffens. “If it makes you feel better, shall I empty my belongings?”

     As her hand goes to her knapsack, about to slide it off her shoulders, the priest shakes his head, raising a hand; she stops. “He’s on the second floor, by the window,” he relents, though it is a far cry from a back down. She thanks him with a tilt of her head before she passes him to climb up the stairs, huffing as she does.

      When she reaches the second floor, she finds a man, true to the priest’s words, hunched over a desk, sunlight streaming behind him. She clears her throat and it earns her his attention as he lifts his head to look at her while he sets the quill on the table.

      “Yes?” he asks and she steps towards him.

      “Are you Brother Jauffre?”

      “I am,” he reinforces with a smile that never quite reaches his eyes. “What did you want to discuss?”

      Without hesitation, she unclasps the buckle on the pouch, reaching into it, grabbing the item between her fingers before she procures it. She dangles it by the chain and it glows, catching the light of morning, refracting across the floor as his eyes widen at the sight. His stare is a thread sterner, strict with warning and caution, and it startles her, if a little.

      “The Emperor sent me.”

      His face turns ashen when she says this, lips pursed into a tight line and his expression is grim, as if he had known this would somehow come to pass. He sighs, motioning for her to come forward while he clasps his hands behind his back. “Did the Emperor tell you to come to me and seek his son’s whereabouts?”

      Her breath hitches in her throat, her pacing coming to a halt before she resumes, resting her hands on the table when she reaches him. She nods; “How did you know?”

      Jauffre chuckles under his breath at that and it dawns to her that he knows a lot more than he lets on, which oddly scares, and reassures, her all at once. “I am one of the few who know of his existence,” he starts, pausing momentarily before he continues. “Many years ago, I served as captain of Uriel's bodyguards, the Blades. One night Uriel called me in to his private chambers. There I saw a baby boy that lay sleeping in a basket. Uriel told me to deliver him somewhere safe,” the man grins at the recollection, a melancholy setting into his tone when he reminisces. “From time to time he would ask about the child's progress and, though he never told me anything else about the baby, I knew it was his son.”

      He sighs, then, pointing his finger to the amulet in her fist. “If we are to assess this by the current situation it seems that this illegitimate son is the heir to the Septim Throne,” he finishes, but she senses the unsaid precipitating on the tip of his tongue before it hangs in the air, albeit the barely audible words; “If he yet lives.”

       _If he yet lives._ It sends a chill down her spine and she realises that she’s never taken into the consideration that this bastard son might just as well be under her feet, buried as a farmer or a merchant, or some fanciful adventurer whose bad luck felled him. She shudders at the possibility. _What would I do then?_

       _Would it be my fault?_

      Swallowing, she asks; “Where is he?”

 

* * *

 

      She brushes her thumb over the cover of the book in her hand, a gift of sorts from the priest she’d first met, who she now knows of as Brother Piner, before she stuffs it into the bag, clasping the knapsack shut. She hands it over to Prior Maborel, then, and he sets to fastening it to the saddle of his horse.

      Jauffre had outfitted her with a generous amount of supplies as aid during her travels in the form of some potions, a new set of armour and a short sword, though she doubt she’d have much need for it, given her ineptitude; still, better safe than sorry.

      When Maborel steps aside, Amelie frowns as she asks, “Are you alright with me taking your horse, Prior?”

      “Please, I think you will put her to much better use than I,” he insists, to which she nods. She lifts her left foot in the stirrup while she grips the horse’s reins, her right hand on the saddle. She rocks on her heels for a moment, apprehensive, then hoisting herself onto the horse, grunting as she does. She shifts in her seat and looks down, notching her right foot into the stirrup, teeth skimming her bottom lip. Gods, she’s never done this before.

      She looks to Maborel and finds him patting the horse’s side gently, the animal snorting, almost as though he were calming its anxiousness. He steps back afterwards, assessing her form; she shrinks under his gaze. “Back straighter, and try not to clench on Patch’s reins too harshly; won’t do her good,” he points out and _Oh_ , she loosens her grasp, feeling Patch ease under her.

      “Thank you, Prior,” she tilts her head down and he returns it with a smile, a wave of his hand, something she finds a little comforting. She digs her heels to the horse’s side slightly and Patch trots forward, taking her onto the Black Road. She tries not to look back, watch the priory shrink beneath the rustling leaves, forcing herself to focus, instead, on the path laid before her, but it isn’t easy.

      Despite the warmth of the sunlight, her heart staggers as fear curls around it like a viper, chilling her to the bone.

       ( _“The Prince of Destruction, is it Mehrunes Dagon?”_  
  
_A pause too long; “Yes, it is.”_ )

      How? An Oblivion gate can barely hold on its own for ten minutes given their instability, let alone days, or weeks. For Mehrunes Dagon to completely appear, it would require a stable tear big enough to -

      _By the Divines, is that what -_

      She shudders at the thought, pushing it aside as she wills herself to focus; one step at a time. Finding the Emperor’s son comes first.

_He is a priest in the Chapel of Akatosh in Kvatch. His name is Martin._

      Martin Septim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update had been slower, mostly because I had been drafting later chapters. Yes, I have no drafts because I live life on edge (P.S: Don't follow this example). Not sure how I feel about this chapter, but I did what I did. If there are any odd mistakes, please don't hesitate to tell me.
> 
> Otherwise, I'd like to take time in telling you how much I appreciate the comments and kudos. I love seeing them in my notifs, I love reading your thoughts on this fic and they never fail to encourage me, to brighten up my day. Thank you so much. Thank you, too, for reading my fic. I hope you continue to enjoy it.
> 
> And a very early Christmas to you! It's Christmas Eve where I am xD If you don't celebrate Christmas, well, I hope you have, or had, a good day :D
> 
> Check me out on my [tumblr](https://www.lysmune.tumblr.com) for my shenanigans
> 
> The Elder Scrolls (c) Bethesda


	6. Oblivion Gate

      When Amelie reaches the outskirts of Kvatch, the sky darkens and she raises her head to see the sky split, blue melding into red, shifting as though unsure. The hairs on the back of her neck prick, teeth chewing her bottom lip; _what in the name of the Divines?_  Patch herself seems nervous, pawing the ground and whinnying, reluctant to move unless Amelie digs her heels against the horse’s side and, even then, she barely takes a step.

      Grimacing, thinking that she’ll make much more progress leading Patch on foot, she dismounts, her landing shaky as she grabs the edges of the saddle to steady herself. The muscles in Amelie’s left arm tighten, spasm a little when she grabs Patch’s reins and leads the horse up the slope of the hill, and she curses under her breath.

      Three days on the road wasn’t enough time to ease all the fatigue, it seems.

      Amelie looks at the sky every so often, a battle of its own, the blue pulsating weakly until, like a receding tide, surrenders when she nears the top of the hill. “Divines,” she breathes, shivering as she shuns her eyes to the road ahead, tightening her grip on Patch’s reins, trying to shake off the creeping fear in vain.  
  
      Murmurs, mutterings growing loud, the panic has become all too palpable in the air.

      “What are we going to do?”  
      “We’ll starve by the week if we can’t get supplies.”  
      “Where are we going to go if the daedra breaks through our last defences?”  
  
_Daedra._

      She reaches the top just as she catches the words and her breath hitches in her throat. Before her are numerous tents sprawled askew, housing sunken-faced civilians, all trembling and hushed, ashen-eyed with fluttering lips. Smoke billows behind the makeshift refuges, carrying an acrid underline and the tang of burnt flesh, burnt bones, and Amelie takes in a breath to try and staunch the searing sensation of skin flaking under her palm.

      She clenches her hand into a fist when the memories start to form, and the world blurs back into a sharpen.

      The city is in ruins, she’s sure; _I’m too -_

      “What are you doing standing around? Run!” and she jolts at the sudden grip on her shoulder, taking in a sharp breath as she is forced to meet the alarmed expression of an Altmer. He shakes her, heaving, trying to gauge whether or not she’s alive before she finally snaps out of her stupor and shrugs him off. He tightens, undeterred, and she clenches down on Patch’s reins. “You have to get out! Kvatch is a ruin, you understand?!”

      “Wha-“

      “We’re the only ones who made it out!” his cries, voice spiked in delirium as he pulls her against him, gap closing and eyes flickering, darting, breaths falling heavy. She freezes for a moment before she raises her hand to his shoulder, eyes narrowing as she frowns, pushing him away; too close, too fast.

      Her fingers curl against his flesh. “How did you escape?” Amelie asks as she straightens her arm out to push him away, all the while looking behind him, scanning the camp for any signs of a priest, though she finds none in sight. _Gods’ blood, he can’t be -_  but she focuses back to the Altmer before she can finish that train of thought, though her back straightens and tenses.

      He swallows, pausing, then, “It was Savlian Matius.” He swallows, turning his head towards the height of the cliff, to what she presumes is supposed to be the city gate, before he looks back. “He,” a pause, another swallow, “he got everyone he could -“

    _Everyone he could._ There has to be more.

      In a haste, her hold on his shoulder tightens, effectively cutting him off, his eyes widening. “Is there anyone else in the city?” Amelie asks, adrenaline peaking, her voice a little more strained, desperate.  _He has to be alive._

      “Th-they’re all dead if -“

      “But is there?!” Amelie barks, her throat horse and her heart hammering, and the Altmer blanks for a moment, then two, before he starts a sputter, tripping over his words, garbling unintelligently. Amelie swears under her breath as she releases her hold on his shoulder, turning away, then, hastily pulling at Patch to tie her reins onto the makeshift barricade by the edge of the overlook.

      He doesn’t seem to be giving her answers and she has no time to waste. She opens the knapsack, rummaging for her potions before she takes four of them and stuffs them into her pouch, tightening the clasp on the knapsack. Amelie gives one last tug on the rein for good measure, then starts her trek up the hill and through the encampment, ignoring the warnings and whatnots the Altmer starts to scream at her.

      The siege has already begun.

 

* * *

 

      Amelie huffs as her skeleton hero runs its blade through the last of the scamps, wincing when it dislodges its sword, ambling towards her. She raises her hand when it reaches her, closing it into a fist before she watches the ghostly wisps in its sockets whittle, bones clattering against the ground and then disintegrating into dust the next second.

      Her knees knock against each other, steps shaky while she rolls her left shoulder testily, wincing when a sharp pain races up her arm, hissing through gritted teeth. It seems the exhaustion from trying to use a shield hadn’t worn off; if anything, it’s worsened. Amelie places her right hand over her upper arm, concentrating on a healing wave that she hopes - hopes - would at least alleviate some of the fatigue before she scours the area.

      One, two, three. They’re all alive, although one of them looks particularly battered in, the back of his armour slightly torn, three thin lines of red dribbling down bare skin from where the scamp had dug its claws; she grimaces.

      She really, really, doesn’t want to ask about the details, but she knows she has to in order to know exactly what she’s up against. “Captain,” Amelie calls and he, presumably said captain, turns to her; she remembers his name to be Savlian Matius, “what happened here?”

      Savlian scoffs, then, before he walks up to her. “What happened?” he reiterates, voice a low simmer that makes her clench her hand instinctively, nails digging into her skin, bracing herself for his anger. “We lost the damned city, that’s what happened!” he snaps, hand balling into a fist, knuckles white and lips trembling, and eyes wearied down by horrors that might never heal. _Divines, what_ had _happened?_  “My home,” and he hangs his head low as shame burns his voice, “my goddamn home. I couldn’t even do anything.”

      He frowns bitterly, spitting out a curse as he averts his eyes to the ground and Amelie holds her breath for a second, unsure of what to say. She has half a mind to scream at him, tell him to take the city back because they’re running out of time, but she swallows it down. Should she comfort him, instead?

      She doesn’t know.

      Savlian takes a shuddering breath while he composes himself, back straightening before he looks back at her. He quiets, for a moment, then, “They’ve opened some kind of … portal to Oblivion, the enemy,” he starts. “They summoned a lot more during the initial gate,” and at that, Savlian points to the faint char on the ground (four, five, six) and her breath hitches in her throat, eyes widening, hardly able to contain her surprise.

_They can’t be this stable._

      But they are. Her heartbeats are thunderclaps in her ear, unforgivingly loud and menacing as she follows the red veins slinking across packed dirt, her focus shifting to the large Gate in the middle, barring her from accessing the city. She can’t even get through to Kvatch and, even if she can, what good would it do? Daedra are just going to keep spawning endlessly until and unless she closes that damned thing.

_Think, Amelie; think._

_(“To everything that seems in balance, there is always an anchor,” her father had said once as he explained the mechanics and principalities of conjuration.)_

      That must be it. They’ve been opened and then stabilised, and all she needs to know is how to destabilise the Gates, and, given the numerous marks on the ground, the guards must know something. They must’ve closed at least one or two.

      “Captain, how did your men close the gate?” she inquires. Matius raises a brow, confusion settling and she furrows her brows, eyes narrowed. _Don’t tell me -_

      “None of us have closed one,” he says, sighing as he does.  _Fuck._  “The enemies shut the ones present in the initial siege,” and Amelie chews the inside of her cheek, looking back at the markings on the ground. So they’re controlled, then; great. She has half the mind to leave, abandon them to their own lives and possibly save herself the trouble but -

_You are the only one who can stem the blood tide._

      She will not fail the Emperor again.

      There isn’t much of a choice here, maybe there never was one. With a heavy breath, Amelie tilts her head down, tugging the satchel’s strap across her waist as a precaution before she chances a quick glance at the Gate, trying to steady herself, then takes a step. Another, and another and -

      A tug on her wrist yanks her back, forcing her to face Savlian. “Where are you going?!” he hisses and she swallows, shaking her hand from the Captain.

      “Into Oblivion.”

      He’s shell-shocked, so much that he stops breathing for a second, before his lips curl into a snarl, anger rising in his eyes, threatening to consume him. “Are you daft?!”

      She grinds her teeth together, then, clenching her hands into fists as knuckles turn white. _Daft?!_  She’s trying to save their lives and he calls her foolish?! “We’ve run out of options, Captain!” she half-screams, loud enough that the remaining soldiers behind Savlian jolt in surprise as she watches his shoulder tense.

      There is a moment long silence before he, with a sigh, lets go of her wrist, backing away, a sort of understanding and acknowledgement when he jerks his head to the direction of the Gate. “May the Divines watch over you,” he blesses.

      She thanks him with a tilt of her head, finally moving forward. A vice-like grip constricts her heart and she finds it harder to breathe when she faces the swirling portal, staring into a vortex that desires to swallow her whole. She’s seen it in the books of her childhood, but it is nothing in comparison to the hell-spawned thing that stands before her. Her nails dig into her palm, trying to brace herself for the slaughter and gore, and fire she’ll surely face.

      It’s a futile attempt, she knows, but she tries anyway.

      Amelie takes a deep breath, taking a step forward tentatively, as though testing the waters. Another second passes before she takes another, and another, and another, until she is right in front of its gaping maw. _Now or never_ , she thinks to herself, and lunges forward on shaky steps (quivering, every inch of her screaming; so _afraid_ ).

      She chances a brief look back but Tamriel fades away too quickly as the Gate warps her into the planes of Oblivion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contrary to popular belief, I am not dead, yet, and neither is this story. I'm back with more trash. I dislike this chapter for some reason, like, I think it's not up to par Dx Maybe that's just me, but eh. I apologise for my absence, I've just been (and still am) really on and off about MeViMeRi, thinking about whether or not I'll continue it. Updates will be really sporadic, now, I think, especially because uni is starting soon.
> 
> Thank you for all the readers who have stuck up until this point, and for awaiting this story's weird ass comeback. Thank you for all my reviewers, especially, because I'm not joking when I say I flip through comments and kinda just, you know, it gives me motivation xD
> 
> Also, chance a visit to my [tumblr](https://www.lysmune.tumblr.com) for updates and stories, and stuff. 
> 
> The Elder Scrolls (c) Bethesda


End file.
